


ringo velvet

by oneliner



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bakery, M/M, i dont even know how this happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneliner/pseuds/oneliner
Summary: While in London, Ringo finds a job at a homely bakery run by the lovely Lennon-McCartneys, once famous for their sugar-frosted lemon puffs. But all is not as wholesome as it seems.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. lemon puffs

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know how this happened. i just want more starrison, damnit.

Ringo looked at his phone after stepping off the train. He was much earlier than expected and had a good hour to find the bus to Rory’s street. He’d bought a sandwich and a double chocolate cookie from the Subway in Liverpool before the trip and still had more than half of it left. He decided he’d split it with Rory.

Rory was busy when Ringo reached his flat.

“Thank you  _ so _ much for d-doin this,” he said, rushing around every room at once with only one sock on. He dropped his passport on the floor and nearly spilled his share of sandwich on it. “You jus saved me a h-hell lotta dough.”

“s alright,” Ringo said, pulling out the cookie. “Ya want some?”

Rory stopped and bit off a chunk of it. “You think G-German cookies are good?”

“I dunno, probably?”

“I’ll bring ya some!”

He gave the whole cookie to Rory as he helped tug his suitcases to the pavement. A cab arrived shortly after that. 

“H-help yerself to the fridge,” he reminded. “But r-remember to keep it clean. Ya g-gots enough money on ya?”

“Rory, I’m a rich man!”

He wasn’t. Ringo kicked his suitcase into the flat's spare bedroom before taking a shower and heading out with the classifieds in hand. He’d been waiting ages and ages to burn his boat waiter job before Rory had rung him up, saying he and the band’d been booked in Hamburg. Ringo had set down his drinks tray and shouted yes to house-sitting so loud and fast he leaned over the side of the ferry to be sick after hanging up. The next day he was here in London. 

Ringo purchased a black tie that was way too long for him. He wore it with his dress shirt and day bag as he walked around. He immediately regretted it: the July heat was remarkably stiffling hot, and he bunched his shirt around the pits so the stains weren’t visible. 

First he went to a coffee club with a drum kit near the window. 

“I used to be in a band,” he told the girl behind the counter. 

“We already  _ have  _ a band. Have you ever mixed drinks?”

Next he did a Google search, and went to a restaurant with an open stage. 

“We don’t have a drum kit, sir,” said the waiter behind the podium. 

“I can bring my own, Ringo said, even if he cringed at the thought of lugging every piece of it on the train and back. 

“There’s a place uptown that plays rock music,” he replied swiftly, writing down the address for him. Ringo ran back to the flat for his drumsticks, filled with hope. 

When he reached the diner uptown it was dinnertime, and the clouds were as grey and rumbly as his heart. The waiter who came to him took one look at the sticks in his pocket and frowned.

“Do you, um,” he put his hands behind his back. “Know guitar?”

“I know like three chords.”

“Piano?”

“I played keyboard in me old band sometimes.”

Ringo was given an audition in a back room with a keyboard so old and beat up he swore half the keys made no sound when he hit them. The waiter said with a grimace that their dinner set was half-price on the first of every month, but Ringo hopped out of the place like it was on fire. No thank you.

The weather wasn't much help either. A roar of thunder cracked across the street. He was barely halfway down the road when the light drizzle turned into a full downpour. Ringo checked his phone map desperately for the nearest bus stop and ran along wearing his day bag as a hat. He ducked under a large tree to steady himself as he heard the zipper tear open, and hastily slid his belongings back in. The next jolt of thunder was so loud it sent him biting his tongue and dropping to a squat on the pavement. People everywhere were rushing through the rain, wind tugging at their hair and umbrellas. And Ringo had left the flat without one, assuming he’d be drumming away by now. One of his sticks clattered to the ground and rolled. 

_ “Fuck,” _ Ringo huddled himself over the muddy puddles in a walk that he was sure, from far away, made him look like he was taking a shit in the street. The drumstick was dangerously near the road. He cringed as his knee hit the wet pavement and soaked his trousers, the stick just in reach, before it halted at a black sneaker. A hand picked it off the ground. 

Ringo looked up. Said hand belonged to a man with his hair blowing all around his face. A pair of round glasses obscured his eyes and rounded his large square chin. He had a clear umbrella over his head in one fist, which he slipped the stick into before extending the other down at Ringo. 

Ringo blinked. 

“s gonna flood out here son,” he said, and Ringo could’ve fallen over onto the mud in delight. 

“You’re Scouser!”

“Yeah, yeah,” He bent lower. “Ye comin or what?”

The man’s name was John, he said, as he led him across the road to where a brightly-lit bakery stood. It bore a big neon lemon on the sign above _ Lemon-McCartney House  _ in block-red canvas. 

“Me surname’s actually Lennon, we jus got popular fer our lemon puffs.”

“Who’s McCartney then?” Ringo asked as they stepped in. The bell above the wooden door jingled as they did. 

“Him,” John nodded to the spot behind the glass pastry case, to where from behind the counter rose a _ beautiful _ man. He had heart-shaped lips and lashes so long they fluttered as he turned. 

“Oh!” he said as he spotted them both. He dropped a tray of said puffs on the counter and rushed out through the lifted flap door. He ran into another room and fetched a towel as John guided Ringo to the table nearest to the heater. 

“Thank you,” Ringo dried his face embarrassedly, but the McCartney fellow had already dashed towards his pastry case. He leant over it, blue pinny smushed against the curved glass, and came back with a frosted glass with a teabag hung in it. 

“This is my husband Paul,” John said proudly, wiping Ringo’s stick with a tissue. “Paulie, this is Ringo from the Dingo.”

_“Really?_ Hi,” said Paul, his hand outstretched. “We never get anyone from Liddypool these days.”

“Thanks,” Ringo said instead of what he wanted to say, wiping his wet hand quick on his wet trousers. “I mean, uh, now ya have.”

“You in a band or somethin?” John plopped Ringo’s clean drumstick back on the table. “We dig music.”

“I used to be,” Ringo said. “Me and my boyfriend used to have this little group and we played some local gigs.”

“You’ve upgraded to London then?” Paul asked, getting up again to get his tray. 

“Oh no, I’m here house-sittin for me mate.”

“But what about yer boyfriend and yer lil group?” said John. 

“It’s jus me now. We broke up,” Ringo sipped his tea. “Is this, uh, lavender?”

“Rosemary,” Paul said. “Sorry to hear that. Ye want one?”

Ringo hadn’t eaten lunch. So the tray of soft golden puffs, lightly dusted with sugar, were so comforting and opulent he could’ve wept.  “I haven’t got much money,” he said as he took only one. “I’m actually looking fer a job right now….”

“s on the house,” Paul said quickly. “And we’ve got loads, so—”

“Who’re you and what’ve ya done with me Macca?” John chortled, smacking a kiss onto Paul’s cheek. “He's a Scrooge.”

“He needs a _job,_ John,” Paul said, pretending to shove him. “Say, Ringo… yer name’s really Ringo?”

“Richard, actually.”

“Oh, okay! We have a spot open here if you like,” Paul said, helping himself to a lemon puff. He then noticed the whole perfect one in Ringo’s hand, and motioned to eating it. “Go on, s our specialty!”


	2. queen of hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ringo starts work and forgets to charge his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! i meant to upload this one on thursday, but i was very busy. anyway, if i don't somehow perish by next thursday you can expect a new chapter!

Ringo ended up eating the tray of lemon puffs for dinner. More accurately, John wrapped them nicely for him and told him he could start tomorrow at nine. It was still storming when they closed up for the day, so Paul had loaned him a little blue umbrella. He left it open outside the front door for it to dry overnight. 

The flat was dark. And in the dark, things were bigger than they really were. Ringo turned on the telly as he munched puffs and clicked through the channels. 

And then he thought about George.

It must’ve been the dark that’d done it; their once familiar haven of lights-off and rolling around under the sheets. They would grope for each other’s face and shriek if something bumped their mouths. They’d stay up all night watching movies on their phones after running to the 7-11 for snacks. 

Ringo opened Instagram and switched to the private account he'd made after he’d moved back home. He didn’t have George on block there, and cringed at himself as he typed his name into the search bar. His account popped up immediately, but this time his profile picture was different. It was a selfie. His old one had been of some tree he’d hiked a mile to go see. Before that it was of one of his sister’s cats. Before that it was his guitar. And before _ that _ it was a selfie of himself and Ringo at the beach. Ringo cringed at how he remembered all that. In this one he's looking out of the collar of his leather jacket and smiling. It must be new.

There were a bunch of new posts— mostly of food, potted plants, and the occasional guitar video or cat meme. The latest one was from around last week, and it was of a brightly lit bar with a row of tall tropical drinks. With a smiling man in between them. Ringo held his breath as he zoomed in, but then realised it was just George’s dad. Under it he’d captioned it  _ happy da day, _ and had tagged his two brothers. Ringo shut his phone off and threw it aside as he flipped channels again. 

Ringo woke up suddenly with a jolt, with the telly bearing a news report of a student protest in downtown London. He scrabbled for his phone. It was just gone eight. He threw it back down in relief and was halfway through brushing his teeth when he realised he forgot to charge it. 

“You’re early,” John remarked when he came to unlatch the door.

“I thought you’d need help,” Ringo nodded. “With the uh, protest and all, you figure they’d be up here by ten.”

“Oh, there’s buses,” John said. “Nine-thirty latest. Good call.”

Ringo got right to work handing in his resume, which Paul directed with a flour-sleeved hand to put in the office, which was just a small desk at the edge of the kitchen with a Chromebook and two framed pictures. When Paul turned to check the ovens Ringo took a peek. One picture was of unmistakably of John and Paul on their wedding day, both in tuxes and bowler hats and surrounded by a shower of yellow confetti. The other was of a huge dog. He lifted that one and slipped his papers under it. 

Shortly after, John entered the kitchen. “We ready yet?”

“Almost,” Paul closed the oven door. “This one won’t heat.”

“The power’s on?”

“Course it is.”

“Did you try turning it on and off?” Ringo tried to supply. 

“I did…. lotsa times,” Paul sighed. John was grinning from ear to ear.  _ “Fine, _ John, call the fixers.”

John gave a shout of joy. He clicked his heels and skipped from the room like a little boy. And Paul, through his eye-roll, smiled at him fondly. Ringo found himself smiling too, glancing back at their wedding photo. 

“Never changed, that one,” Paul said, getting a rag. “You ready, Ritchie?”

“We’re opening?”

“I was thinkin you help me jam these,” Paul opened one of the lit ovens and practically stuck himself in. He emerged with a sumptuous smelling tray of pastries. As he set them on the table he saw empty centres, with a heart-shaped blob of dough stretching in the middle. 

“Oh, they’re so pretty!” he said, bending down for a better look. All the hearts looked smooth and golden perfect, like they were cookie-cutter. 

“You know Alice in Wonderland?” Paul said, bringing pots of strawberry jam from the fridge to the kitchen island. “John’s a  _ big _ fan. There’s this bit where the Queen of Hearts gets ‘er tarts get stolen, y’know?”

“I think so.”

“Well, John stole mine,” Paul laughed. “I made these for his birthday once and now I make ‘em every day.”

“Every _day?”_ Ringo lifted one carefully, admiring the handiwork. “These look like— amazing. Like art.”

“Baking _ is  _ an art! And I practice,” Paul pushed him a jar of jam. “Yer first job is to help me jam the holes.”

“Would I!”

“It’s the best bit, so be generous,” Paul pulled a stool up and sat, scooping a big spoonful of jam. He coated the sides of the tart’s gleaming heart with a thick helping of it. Ringo watched in awe— and when it was done, he too saw why they had been stolen.

“God, that’s good.”

“Wait till ye try it,” Paul winked. “But first….”

“Oh, course,” Ringo got himself a spoon. He took great pains not to scratch or accidentally scoop out the heart, patting down the jam evenly like Paul showed him. Paul had his spoon twirling like magic in his left hand, grabbing a new tart with a gloved right every few seconds. 

“How long have ye been here, if ya don’t mind?” Ringo asked. “You’re a right pro.”

“Don’t know what we’d do if we weren’t! Six years.”

“No way. Ye don’t look that old.”

“Hope not. I’m twenty-seven!”

“An you already have yer own roarin business!”

“We started when I was twenty-one.”

“Holy _shit,_ not  _ here _ at least.”

“Here alright! We got a deal on this place,” Paul pushed himself off the stool to fetch a new jar. “And John saved some money from when  _ he _ turned twenty-one, and then the day  _ I  _ turned twenty-one he brought me here and showed me this place.”

“Awww.”

“And we got married the next month!”

_How much did that cost????_ Ringo wanted to ask. But that would be overly rude. 

“Oh man, I’m twenty-nine,” he said instead. 

“John’s twenty-nine too in October.”

“Cool but... no, like… you’re here makin a real _deal_ outta yer life barely pushin twenty,” Ringo set his completed tart down on a plate. “I’m twenty-nine in five days. And up till two days ago I still lived with me mum."

“Oh, happy birthday!” Paul said. “I’ll make you somethin.”

Ringo laughed, trying to squash the creeping insecurity that suddenly rose in his chest. 

“But there’s no shame in that, y’know. You’re a musician, right? Some of ‘em don’t get their start till they’re fifty, even!”

Ringo looked at him. “Who started at fifty?”

Paul paused, tapping his chin. “Leonard Cohen?” he said, after a bit. 

“Who’s that?”

_ “Halleluuuujah?” _ Paul sang, but Ringo shook his head with a chuckle. He looked down one moment and found that he had finished his own tray of tarts without even noticing. 

“Anyway, I’m a drummer. I’ve been playin since I was thirteen,” Ringo laughed. Paul was actually quite fun to talk to. “My boyfriend too. He used to play the guitar fer me.”

“Used to?” asked Paul. “He ain’t dead, is he?”

“He’s my ex, remember,” Ringo was surprised at how easy it had been for him to say it these days. He almost hated it. 

“Oh right. Sorry,” Paul set aside the jar and put his chin on the back of his hand. “How long have ye been broken up?”

“Uh, a year? We used to live together, but I moved back to Liddypool after that,” Ringo smoothed the jam over in his current tart. “And now my mate’s asked me to house-sit for him here while he plays with  _ his _ band. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes.”

Paul thought again. “Haven’t heard of them.”

“Don’t worry, no one has,” Ringo laughed. “Rory advertises them a lot on YouTube and stuff….uh… I used to play with ‘em.”

“With yer ex-boyfriend?” 

“Yeah.”

“Why’re you ex-boyfriends?” Paul said as Ringo paused to set the finished tart. “Oh it’s okay, I dig a lil too deep sometimes—”

“We grew apart. He and I had a hard time that year. I didn’t think either of us could take it, but I felt it comin,” Ringo pushed the tray over. “There, we’re all ready here.”

* * *

John was wrong about the student protest crowd headed to the bakery. By eleven-thirty the only people who'd come in were ladies in jogging gear for bagels, a flustered dad with two young sons (he bought four tarts to bribe them off their screeching) and an old woman who'd left Ringo a probably accidental tip of _fifty_ pounds in the mason jar on the pastry case.

Ringo wondered if he should go after her as she walked out with her bag of lemon puffs. But then he thought of London. And his birthday, in five days. And remembered waking up in a bush on his twenty-eighth. He decided maybe he should buy himself a good dinner. George always insisted birthday dinner was a thing.

Oh, yet _again_ he thought about George. Ringo tried to redirect his focus. The Queen of Hearts tarts looked like soft rubies under the light of the glass case. And he just couldn't do it.  It was a far stretch, but if they had carried on the way they did, maybe they could’ve opened the _Harrison-Starfruit House_ or something. Or just gotten married. 

Ringo slapped that notion from his mind. He couldn’t _marry_ George. Not that he hadn’t ever wanted to, it was just that now he couldn’t stand the thought. It made him crazy.

The last time they spoke…. they hadn’t really spoken. On George’s birthday Ringo was feeling particularly raw. He’d sworn off the idea of texting him, opting to go to a midnight movie with his mum. And yet when midnight came and the film started rolling, Ringo’s fingers itched. He made his mum hold his phone. Ten minutes into the movie, he heard her soft snores, and took his phone from her hands. He texted _ happy birthday  _ in barely a second and shoved it back into her palms. She woke with a start and dropped their popcorn.

When the movie was over, Ringo fought not to look at his phone. He and Elsie went for supper at the chippy. Only when she told him to check for traffic had he then opened his phone, and saw George's text of _thank you <3\. _

He didn't sleep that night. He hated it. He skipped work the next morning and stayed under the covers watching movies on his phone. 

Speak of the devil, then, it buzzed against his leg. No one was in the bakery, so he took it up and then nearly dropped it.

George's sleepy, smiling face lit up the screen. Ringo then wondered why he was always forgetting to change that god damn photo. It had been over a YEAR, god damn it. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek as he swiped the green icon. 

"ello?" he said, thankful for how calm he sounded.

There was a beat of silence. Then:

"Ritchie?"

Ringo hated how he had to fight the moistness that suddenly threatened his eyes. George always had the loveliest voice. 

"What?" he said, creasing up his own face. In case anyone walked in, he turned to face the wall, where hung an odd painting of two puppies. John had signed it at the bottom. The dogs were in love, as scrawled below. "Y-yeah?" he tried again.

"I was... I was just wondering if I could drop by."

"Wot."

"Wondering if I could come over," George repeated. "And it's nearly yer birthday and all—"

“I’m not home, I’m in London.”

George paused. “....what?”

“I’m in London," Ringo said, gaining control of himself at last. "I'm house-sittin for Rory. Hurricanes got booked.”

“Where?”

“Hamburg.”

There was a long silence. Ringo could hear George’s breathing over the line, and was fairly certain George could hear his, too. It made him unreasonably uncomfortable. He considered hanging up. He should, anyway. He was at work. John or Paul could turn the corner and see him on the phone. 

“How long are you sittin?”

“I dunno, until he comes back? Listen, I gotta get back to my—”

“Ritchie, would he mind if I joined you?”

This threw Ringo for an absolute loop. He could've dropped his phone right there. 

_ "What?" _

"Would Rory mind if I joined you over there?" 

Something about his tone sounded wrong. Wronger than it had been in the last year, anyway. Ringo licked his lips. He thought of George standing in Rory's kitchen, washing plates they'd eaten dinner from. Him watching the news on the telly. Them turning out the lights for bed. 

His heart does something. He's not sure what. 

"Uh," Ringo looked up then to the rapid jingling of the bell. A whole crowd of teen boys and girls with picket signs were filing in, breaking the quiet with racket. "Sorry, I'll call you back." 

"Ritchie—"

"Oh _boy!"_ Paul said, bursting in with a fresh hot batch of Queen of Hearts. "We're eatin _good_ today!" 

Ringo got to work helping Paul distribute the tarts, and let his phone battery go flat. 


End file.
